


Solace Against The Wound That Never Heals

by RainbowWhale (WingedWhale)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feels, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Sherlock's memories of Serbia, Sherstrade, giving up cigarettes, it's a splendid two for one angst and feels combo, tumblr prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedWhale/pseuds/RainbowWhale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's having difficulty coping with his past. And he knows he must fight his addiction if he is to have any hope of keeping his head above water. Luckily he has a certain sexy silver fox to lean on in his struggles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace Against The Wound That Never Heals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mycitruspocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/gifts).



> Prompted by the lovely mycitruspocket for Sherstrade where Sherlock and Greg give up cigarettes together!

Sherlock’s mind was finally beginning to slow down after twelve hours of busy theory crafting about Jim Moriarty’s mass media announcement and another two of picking the brain of the Theory King himself, Philip Anderson. Just for good measure, mind you, and to prove that he could work well with people he wasn’t overly fond of without shooting them in the head.

            His incarceration in Serbia had left lasting damage. He was no longer able to work like a creature possessed for days on end with little to no sleep. And the pain… the pain nearly drove him to cocaine. His damaged nerves screamed in agony, pinging shocks of searing sharp pain down his spine and the backs of his legs.

            He’d never told anyone. And though last November he’d been fully confident he’d never have to do, now . . . now he wasn’t so sure. His only solace was his cigarettes, where he could get lost in the taste of the flavour on his tongue and the heady comfort of the nicotine surrounding him like a warm cloak against the East Wind. But at the rate he was going, he’d likely have lung cancer by next week if he didn’t change his tune.

            It was now half eight and Sherlock picked disconsolately at a plate of frozen pizza. He let out a long weary sigh, the sound carrying a tinge of pained discomfort. For reasons he didn’t want to think about, painkillers were utterly out of the question.

            Thus the cigarettes. He knew he should have felt comfortable confiding his secret to John. The man was a doctor, after all. But as it was . . . he simply couldn’t bring himself to speak of it. And all the while there was this niggling little voice in the back of his mind calling him a miserable coward.

            He closed his eyes briefly, tight lines forming between his eyes as he gritted his teeth against another sharp shockwave of pain through his lower extremities. The pain was always worse at night. When he opened his eyes there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

            He hoped it wasn’t John. Mary could see through him a bit more than he was comfortable with and if she sent her husband to 221B to check on him . . . he just couldn’t muster the energy to pretend everything was all right. And he didn’t want to deal with John’s questions. Not tonight.

            In another second the familiar face of Greg Lestrade appeared in the threshold.

            “Hullo,” said the DI, stopping to stand just inside the room.

            Sherlock regarded him silently, uncharacteristically caught at a loss for words. He was so damnably weary and disorientated in regards to his place in the world right now, all he could do was watch as all previously constructed facades fell in a scattered heap at his feet. This wasn’t the time for games.

            “Greg,” Sherlock said softly.

            The DI suddenly stilled at the sound of his given name on Sherlock’s lips. His expression transformed into a look of openly heartfelt concern. He took a couple of slow steps forward.

            “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I texted you earlier and either you’re ignoring me or you haven’t checked your phone for the last six hours. Please, Sherlock, I know you know you can trust me. And right now I’m begging you to let me in.”

            Sherlock fixed him with a look that was bright with misery. He then looked away and reached for his last package of cigarettes. Producing a lighter from his pocket, Sherlock busied himself with lighting his cigarette as he tried to decide what to say next.

            He was so out of his element he didn’t know what direction he was going in. Did it even matter now? He inhaled deeply, enjoying the rich bite of the smoke filling his senses.

            Was he so broken that something so hideously mundane as a little cigarette could now hold all the power in the world over him? Perhaps . . . but then perhaps not. He took another long drag from the cigarette, relishing the fleeting but sharp “chemical comfort”.

            Quietly, in a barely audible voice that Greg had to strain to hear, Sherlock fixed his gaze upon him and said, “I need your help.”

            Greg joined Sherlock on the sofa.

            “If I don’t quit smoking I’m going to dig myself an early grave,” Sherlock whispered. “There are things that happened to me while I was away...”

            He trailed off staring out into the middle distance. His closed his eyes in deep pain once again and swallowed hard. When he opened them he caught sight of the silver haired DI watched him with such achingly tender affection it nearly made his breath catch in his lungs.

            He gave Greg a bleak look of such soul-deep despair and it was all he could do to keep himself from flying to pieces. He had such a tenuously brittle hold on his self confidence, he was frightened for the future. There was a small part of him that wished his brother had not called him back from his mission.

            But staring at the beautifully dark eyes of Greg Lestrade and seeing the burning depth of the other man’s obvious concern reached out and touched a fragment of his bruised humanity. Taking one last long pull from the cigarette he removed it from his lips and exhaled deeply. After tapping it over the ashtray beside him, he held the burning cigarette out to the DI.

            “Finish it,” Sherlock said simply.

            Greg gently plucked the cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers, staring at it as if it might contain the secrets of the universe. His gaze downcast, he brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled. He closed his eyes.

            Sherlock shifted positions so that he was facing Greg, his right leg tucked up beneath him. He then reached out partially across the distance between them, his hand hovering hesitantly in midair above the DI’s left knee.

            Greg slowly opened his eyes, watching Sherlock patiently.

            “I know you, Sherlock. Better than you realise. And I wish I knew what words to say that would make you understand how much I genuinely care. For I _do_ care about you, Sherlock. Probably far more than you’ve ever imagined. You know what I’m talking about.”

            “ _I know_ ,” Sherlock said hollowly. He then let his hand come down to settle fully on the DI’s left knee. Greg held Sherlock’s gaze carefully, not moving, waiting for Sherlock to say more. “And I was a right priggish bastard for blatantly ignoring things with such alacrity.”

            The DI laid his hand over Sherlock’s. “Let’s not analyse the past,” he said gently.

            “I have no notion of what to do or how to do it. And I’m afraid it’s much the same with what to say . . . I’m not used to this. Opening up. _Discussing sentiment._ I don’t know who I am anymore. Everything is slipping away.”

            “ _Do_ you trust me?”

            Sherlock tightened his grip on Greg’s knee. “Yes, of course I do.”

            “Then let me in, Sherlock. I can’t be of much use if you don’t share with me the truth of what’s bothering you.”

            Sherlock didn’t immediately reply. When he did his voice was taught with discomfort. “I was tortured in Serbia. My memories aren’t exactly spot on mind you, but what I do remember involves copious amounts of pain heightening drugs, tasers, and a delightful little device that resembled a corkscrew. I have extensive permanent nerve damage. It’s the sole reason why I went back to drugs for the Magnussen case. I’m in agony, Greg. Pure, persistent, physical agony. I have burning white-hot lightning shooting down my spine turning my senses into a blazing molten sea of pain. I can’t tell John. And while I’m fairly sure my brother knows something about it, I can’t bring myself to discuss it with him. I’ve been using cigarettes as a rather poor coping mechanism. It’s beginning to get to the point where even the endorphin rush of nicotine is a poor analgesic. I need help.” Sherlock looked solemnly into Greg’s brown eyes, searching the older man’s gaze. “I don’t know what you should do. I don’t know what I need. I’m becoming less and less of myself, tripping up, failing to see the signs. My skills in deduction aren’t what they should be. I’m not sure if they ever will be again.”            

            Greg slowly rubbed his thumb in soothing strokes over the top of Sherlock’s hand.

            “Giving up cigarettes is an excellent place to start,” he said, carefully refraining from questioning Sherlock about his incarceration. The consulting detective was much like a newborn fawn; at any sudden movement he would attempt to flee. So instead the DI continued to lightly caress Sherlock’s hand, saying with touch alone more than he ever could with mere words. “In fact, I’ll quit the habit with you.”

            “You will? I think I’d quite like that.”

            “Yeah?” Greg asked with a hint of a tiny smile. “Then I make you a solemn promise now that this’ll be my very last fag.” He drew one last deep pull of smoke into his lungs and blew it out with a soft sigh. He then reached onto the table to the ashtray and stamped the cigarette out completely. As he leaned back into the sofa, Sherlock arranged himself noticeably closer to the DI.

            The two men held each other’s gaze for several long heartbeats before Greg carefully took hold of Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him against his chest. Sherlock looked into the DI’s eyes one final time, his mercurial gaze penetrating into the very core of the other man’s soul before he leaned down and moulded his lips against Greg’s.

            The DI drank Sherlock in, reveling in the sensations of Sherlock’s mouth slowly moving over his. Their movements were unhurried and so deeply sensual it brought the pricking of salty tears to both men’s eyes. Sherlock eased his tongue into the DI’s, licking between Greg’s parted lips with such achingly profound gentleness that a tear slipped from the DI’s right eye to slowly roll down his cheek. The kiss was full of a slow burning smoldering passion that captured their senses and riveted their attention upon each other for a good handful of minutes. When at last they broke apart Sherlock was able to give Greg a small but very genuine smile.

            “Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, settling himself to pillow his head against Greg’s chest.

            “For what?” Greg questioned, staring down at the consulting detective and threading a hand into the man’s thick curls.

            “For never once giving up on me.”

            The DI smiled. “I’ll stand by you, no matter what the problem is, no matter what the future holds. I’ll be right here with you, Sherlock. You don’t have to face your demons alone ever again. You have my word.”

            And with that, Sherlock took hold of the DI’s hand and gave it a strong affectionate squeeze. He closed his eyes contentedly as Greg continued to stroke his hair.

            Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the Universe was looking out for him after all and had sent him solace in the form of a devastatingly attractive Detective Inspector with a heart of gold. For the first time since his return, Sherlock Holmes had true hope for his future.


End file.
